


Negative Proof

by scheherazade



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M, post-Wimbledon 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-03
Updated: 2010-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:59:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy can't remember the last time he was actually drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Negative Proof

Andy can't remember the last time he was actually drunk. 

Well, he _can_ , but it's not something he likes to remember. So he tries not to. 

Because the last time was when he was sixteen, in Barcelona, and he'd ended up vomiting all over his own shoes in a back alleyway, faint laughter and his own heartbeat ringing in his ears and Rafa's voice, soft and accented and _concerned_ —and it was funny, almost, when you considered that Andy had only gone clubbing with everyone because he thought maybe he could impress Rafa, if he could hold his own, prove that he was just as good. Better. Except Rafa wasn't impressed, he was _concerned_ , and Andy was never going to be good enough for him—

Not back then, and not today. Summer in London, summer in Spain; the Mediterranean shimmering bright and blue, the sky vaulted like a second roof over Centre Court. It's always the same. 

"You have a complex, you know that?" Novak says, poking him in the shoulder. The empty winebottles on the countertop echo dark and hollow when Andy accidentally knocks his elbow against them.

"I don't have a complex," he manages to say, and he thinks he almost makes it without stumbling over any of the words. "It's just... It's Rafa." Except, he's pretty sure he meant to say _tennis_. He squints at his wineglass. How many of these has he had, anyway? It tastes terrible.

Novak gives him a _look_. Andy is a little jealous of the fact that Novak can hold his alcohol better (a lot better) than he can, because it gives him a distinct advantage in certain situations—like now, when he leans closer and covers Andy's hand with his own, gives it a little pat, thumb stroking over Andy's wrist, and says, "I think we can all relate."

"Wish I couldn't." Andy looks down at his hands. At Novak's hand, over his own. "Why can't I have a thing for you instead? Would be easier."

There's a slight pause. Andy thinks he might have said something wrong, but the alcohol is making it a little hard to figure out what. Novak's thumb tracing lazy circles on the inside of his wrist isn't helping.

"Well," Novak is saying, "even if you don't, doesn't mean we can't..."

And even though he's a little (more than a little) drunk, Andy knows that this is probably a bad idea, whatever Novak is suggesting. Kim is upstairs, asleep. His _mum_ is upstairs. Even Rosco—because apparently his team decided he needs a suicide watch, even though he is _fine_ and does _not_ need anything of the sort. (He has Novak.)

"We shouldn't," he starts to say.

"But we could," Novak cuts him off. "No one has to know."

Part of it, Andy will tell himself later, part of it's just that he doesn't want Novak to leave yet. He doesn't want to talk to anybody right now, can't stand to see Kim or Miles or even his mum, but he doesn't want to be alone. He wants Novak to stay, just a little bit longer. 

That's the reason, he'll tell himself later—that's the reason he says, "Okay," lets Novak's fingers curl around his hand, lead him upstairs to the guest room on the far end of the hall. That's the reason he lets Novak push him against the door, and that's the reason it really is okay when Novak steals a quick, bruising kiss from his lips.

And it doesn't make any sense, Andy thinks fuzzily as Novak tugs at his t-shirt, nearly tearing it as he strips it from Andy's shoulders, tosses it onto the floor. It doesn't make much sense at all, but he kind of needs this right now. Because what happened out there today—out on Centre Court, the grass dusty beneath his feet and the roar of the crowd in his ears, too many pairs of eyes following his every move and Rafa— Rafa— 

He needs someone to make him forget. He needs Novak to push him onto the bed and pin his wrists above his head and— He needs—

"What do you want?" Novak breathes against his ear, two fingers hooked under the waistband of his shorts, one hand on Andy's chest, pressing down on the wild beating of his heart, and Andy can't find the words. 

Then Novak is kissing him again, gently this time, and he tastes like wine and the bitterness on the back of his tongue. His hands are gentle—everything about him is so fucking _gentle_ —and it's not supposed to be like this. He needs Novak to be rough with him, because he can handle that—he knows how to handle being beaten—but not this. 

Novak eases him out of his shorts, stroking him slowly, and then it's just bare skin and hands and lips. Novak is kissing him everywhere, rocking their hips together, legs tangled and arms curled around Andy's shoulders, just holding him. 

He feels like he's falling, this— It feels like falling apart, all over again. 

Novak is saying, "I'm here, I've got you," and Andy didn't even notice that he's been sobbing Novak's name into the curve of his shoulder. It's too much—too slow, too gentle, not enough. He's coming apart in Novak's hands, and Novak just holds him, holds him together, and he doesn't understand why it's always like this. Why, in moments like this, it's always Novak.

"Are you okay?" Novak says, afterwards, after he rolled off of Andy, grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom, cleaned them both up the best he could, got back into bed, lying next to him, not quite touching.

Andy turns his head, hides his face against the damp skin of Novak's shoulder.

"Stay for a while," he says finally, and his voice is barely audible, even to his own ears, but Novak hears him. (Novak always hears him.)

And he's far from okay, Andy thinks as Novak draws him closer, presses a kiss to the top of his head. Whatever this is, it isn't okay. But when he falls asleep, it's to the sound of Novak's soft, uneven breathing, and when he dreams, he dreams of summer in Spain, someone holding his hand, laughing gently into his ear. 

When he wakes up the next morning, Novak is gone. The silence echoes like a hollow drum, and it takes Andy a minute to realize that he hasn't been dreaming of Rafa at all.


End file.
